The sounds of the marketplace must have been deafening, if not terrifying, to rural visitors accustomed to the calm pastoral life of rustic villages. Accompanying the singsong clamor of bold merchants were the rhythmic poundings of craftsmen’s mallets and hammers as they shaped wood, copper, leather, and silver. Sheep and cattle cried in braying choruses of fear as they were led under the whips and clubs of their new owners, hooves clattering and slipping on stone and wood. Holy criers, in sonorous tones, announced special messages from the high priest almost hourly, children screamed, pimps argued and bargained, dogs barked, and four times a day the priestly blast of seven silver trumpets reverberated throughout the squalor, driving all people to their knees. The inhabitants of the lower city, Joseph explained, were not only subjects of Rome but also prisoners of their own despair, and the pious injunctions of their priests offered them little hope of ever attaining a better life. They had almost rioted when they heard that Jesus had been crucified. He, like no other rabbi or teacher, had been accepted among them.

We found James on one of the many busy side streets, standing by his outside stall waving a hammer in one hand and gesturing furiously to a small crowd gathered around him.

“Even when he is supposed to be working at his craft,” Joseph said admiringly, “he cannot forget his great mission in life.” The old man turned to me and took my hands. “Be careful. Do what you must and watch for Shem. He will return for you in an hour. Go in peace. Mizpah.”

“Mizpah? I know what that means.”

“Tell me, son,” he said, biting on his lower lip.

“The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.”

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “That is my prayer, Matthias.”

I watched until the wagon turned left into one of the crowded main streets. Suddenly I felt as insecure as any youngster who has run away from home.

“Matthias, welcome!”

I turned to see James rushing toward me, thrilled and relieved that he had recognized me. We embraced, and in his exuberance he almost carried me through the furniture-strewn lot into his small tent.

After several minutes of small talk, James asked, “What is it I can do for you? Certainly your visit here is not to see the sights, such as they are.”

We were sharing the same unfinished bench. The smell of freshly cut pine filled the enclosure. “Do you recall your promise to me?” I asked.

His face clouded. “A promise—to you? No.”

“You do remember that day I visited you in the Temple courtyard, in the company of Joseph of Arimathea?”

“I do. You asked many questions about Jesus, and I answered them to the best of my ability.”

“You didn’t answer all of them.”